


The Darkest Ones

by Annariel, fredbassett



Category: Primeval
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annariel/pseuds/Annariel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Page discovers a winter anomaly that opens every sixty-six years in the grounds of Philip Burton's House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest Ones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [and_i.livejournal.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=and_i.livejournal.com).



> Written for the primeval_denial secret santa for the prompt "Dire Wolf" we also managed to throw in a reference to the prompt _I'm here again, the stars befriending, they come and go of their own free will_ and an oblique reference to _Come in, come in, come in, come in, from thin and wicked prairie winds, come in_.
> 
> Firmly in denial about several events in the show.

The heels on Sarah's boots echoed on the hard wooden floor as she walked from empty room to empty room.

"What do you think?" asked Burton. He'd left her free to roam about the old house, but was waiting for her in the front hall, half an eye on his iPhone, still running Prospero even as he waited.

"It's a lovely house. It seems very you," she told him.

He looked surprised. "You think so?"

She shrugged. She didn't really know him that well, but hot shot businessmen generally lived in splendid country piles so she supposed so.

"Is it interesting?" he asked.

"It's fairly typical of late seventeenth century houses. They're all interesting since so few have survived. This one's been messed about with quite a lot, but not as much as many. I'd have to check local records and brush up on my architectural history to tell you if there's anything particularly interesting about this place."

"Would you care to look into it for me? Write up something about the house, advise on how to do it up sensitively."

"You mean, like a job?"

"It wouldn't be permanent, but it would tide you over until you found something else."

She'd handed in her resignation the same day as Becker had. She still woke sweating and screaming at night, with the stale smell of a predator's breath in her nostrils, competing with the smell of blood and urine, and the sound of soldiers screaming in her ears. She realised she had unconsciously bunched up her hands and was staring at Burton, startled into fight or flight mode by even his oblique reference to her lack of a job, her resignation and the reasons for it.

"That's nice of you," she offered hesitantly.

He smiled slightly, the smile he had that wavered between diffident and insincere. "I'm honest about wanting the job done. If I'm going to live here I want to know about the place."

She nodded mutely and wondered if he cared at all, or just found her convenient. After all her sudden joblessness saved him the need to find a qualified historian himself.

* * *

Waterford Hall had been built by Sir Henry Waterford in 1662. He had grown wealthy on the back of his ever expanding flocks of sheep and clearly wanted to shower lavish gifts on his much younger wife, Maria. He sold it two years later when Maria died in childbirth, a circumstance that made Sarah pause and ponder the story behind Henry and Maria and the possible depth of feeling he held for her. It then passed through the hands of several families, few staying more than a generation or so. An east wing was added by the Georgians and torn down by the Victorians. Soldiers had been barracked there in two world wars. On the death of Richard MacAvoy in 1953 it had fallen, unloved and unregarded, into disrepair owned by a cousin in the US who either couldn't afford or didn't care to do anything with it. An oil magnate eventually bought it in 1985, discovered that listed building regulations wouldn't allow him to gut and remodel the entire interior and promptly sold it again, but he had at least made it water tight in the interim.

More owners came and went. Robert Carmichael from Texas stayed for a few summers in the 1990s and impressed the locals with his cowboy hat and large cigars before selling it on to Rafique Patel who lasted barely a year before abandoning it amid a shower of controversy in the local papers where the words `incomers' and `different culture' were used a lot and the word `racism' was carefully avoided. Arthur Shaw obtained planning permission to convert it into a hotel in 2001 but (probably fortunately) ran out of money before he could implement his scheme. Andrew Shah wanted to set up a paintball site in the grounds in 2003. Fidelity Holdings Ltd planned to use it as an office building but went bust before moving in and then Philip Burton had bought it in 2010 but singularly failed to do anything with it.

The interior was hollow and empty and felt free of personality. So many people had come and gone so rapidly they had left barely any imprint on the building itself. Most of them got no further than clearing away the old and never managed to install anything new. Sarah wondered around the empty rooms, making notes on the authenticity of the fireplaces and wooden panelling, picking up an interesting carving here and a spot of lewd graffiti there.

"You can stay in the blue bedroom, if you like, when you're using the local records offices," Philip had offered when she agreed to take the job.

The blue bedroom was unmistakeable, someone in the mid-1990s _Changing Rooms_ mania had painted three walls bright blue and the third silver. A huge heavy oak four poster squatted uneasily in the centre of the room. Sarah suspected it was a Victorian reproduction. She covered it with white bedding, filled the room with scented candles and brought in a couple of lamps. The effect took the place from oppressive to bright and airy. Sarah was pleased with herself. The window looked out over the long driveway that led up a short rise to a mock-Greek folly, a circular pavilion with a domed roof that stood on fluted columns. Each evening she could see the place silhouetted against the sunset, a lone human edifice framed by the avenue of trees.

Bernard Hawthorne, Philip's estate manager, claimed to have spent an entire week hacking back the undergrowth on that driveway to bring it back to the wide green promenade some long past garden designer had originally envisaged.

Sarah enjoyed the view and the quiet of the house. It seemed to wrap around her like a hug, stilling her to a kind of peace. She continued to send off job applications but she felt in no rush, allowing the pace of her life to be dictated by the faint trail of history and legend that led her through the local record office, the county library and occasionally off to bigger archives in London.

* * *

"Sorry! I forgot you'd be here."

Philip's presence in the front hall startled her. He had a single suitcase at his feet and was standing looking contemplatively around the fixtures and fittings.

"You know me," she waved her hands excitedly and then wondered what on earth she was doing.

"Take anything in your stride?" he offered and she nodded gratefully, pleased to have some explanation for her madness.

"What brings you out to the sticks?" she asked.

He had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Needed somewhere quiet to think for a change."

Sarah nodded. "I'll be quiet as a church mouse, I promise."

"I think I can manage some degree of sociability over supper." He looked at her, his hands thrust awkwardly into his pockets. His smile was strangely tentative for such a usually composed man.

She found herself nodding again, like some broken children's toy. "See you for supper then."

"Yes"

And they parted ways.

* * *

It was an odd weekend. The sound of other footsteps in the house disturbed her concentration and Burton didn't stay still, she heard him pacing through the rooms muttering to himself.

When she went to look for him in order to ask who, actually, was providing supper and should she, perhaps, phone the nearest Chinese, she found him standing in the great hall. He'd blu-tacked vast sheets of paper to every wall and was scrawling equations and diagrams across them.

"Sometimes I need to spread out a bit," he said a little lamely in response her look.

"That's fine. Your house," she said with a grin, knowing that as soon as he was gone on Monday morning she would be going over the original wooden panelling with a fine-toothed comb to remove every last trace of blu-tac. If left, the stuff eventually set to the consistency of concrete and would need to be removed with a fine drill. The stuff was the bane of museum curators the world over. Far too many people used to use it to mount exhibits, and still did in some places. At least he hadn't used sellotape. The nasty stains that left behind were just as difficult to remove.

They agreed on Chinese and, in the end, ate it on the floor of the great hall because Burton was still having ideas and kept needing to jot things down on the paper covered walls.

The room smelled faintly of MSG and sweet and sour sauce for the next week.

* * *

The local library had led Sarah inexorably to the local historian, a brisk elderly gentleman by the name of John Marlin. His grand-father's name was on the local war memorial. His father had spent much of the Second World War sweltering in the heat of the Burmese jungle. Sarah gradually worked out that John had served two tours in Northern Ireland but he chose not to talk about it, burying himself in the minutiae of village life through the centuries.

John persuaded her to give a talk on Egyptology to the local history society and she spent a pleasant, but somewhat chilly, evening in the village hall while various pensioners asked her a range of questions from the tendency for Egyptian monarchs to marry their relatives, a source of hearty amusement she discovered, to curiosity about Philip Burton and his intentions for Waterford Hall, on which subject she couldn't enlighten them.

"It would be nice to have people living there. It seems so lonely." Judith Granger was one of the younger people present, maybe in her fifties with greying hair and sensible shoes.

Sarah made non-committal noises of agreement.

She was surprised when Judith phoned her the next week and suggested she come to the weekly meeting again. "The speakers do like someone who can ask intelligent questions."

Judith was on the committee for the local history society, and the parish council and the women's institute. Sarah rapidly found she had few evenings free, but the company got her out of her lonely existence in the house. It was busy, but in a quiet way that made her feel relaxed.

* * *

"Sorry! Couldn't raise you on the phone or I'd have let you know I was coming." It was Burton again. This time he had several Waitrose bags as well as his suitcase and had arrived ostentatiously by helicopter. Sarah had been alerted by the noise of the thing landing on the ugly helipad Robert Carmichael, Texan, late of this parish had installed in the grounds, carving it out of what had once been a beautiful lawn. On the previous occasion he'd come up by car, tucking a sleek red convertible into a corner of the drive.

"It is your house," Sarah pointed out.

He smiled. Sarah couldn't ever quite make out his smiles, whether he was happy or just pretending to be so.

"Food?" she asked pointing at the bright bags around his feet.

"I thought I'd make curry. That Chinese was a bit bland."

Burton, it transpired, liked his curry _hot_. Fortunately Sarah's mother had always been of the belief that no one should ever walk away from a meal capable of sensation on the inside of their mouth. Sarah had the impression she might even have impressed Burton.

* * *

"Is that a map of the anomalies?" Sarah squinted at the complicated graph stuck to the wood panelling in the main hall. She really was going to have to have a discussion with him about the perils of blu-tac.

"What makes you ask that?" Burton's tone was guarded. It was the voice he used when anyone asked about the secure research labs in the Prospero building but Sarah thought she heard genuine curiosity underneath the reservation.

"Cutter had a model in his lab. I helped him with it."

"Oh, yes! I had forgotten." Burton turned back to stare at the wall, his forehead creased in concentration.

He looked surprisingly informal. He was still wearing a pressed shirt but he'd taken off his tie and the jacket and flung them over a dining chair. His body had a nice shape, lean without being straggly. With an effort, Sarah stopped staring at him and looked back at the wall.

"You're missing a few." She tapped a couple of places on the sheet.

"Really?"

"Yes. That one was Ptolemaic Egypt, I think. There was a surprisingly detailed account once you knew what you were looking for. And there was one here, in Vedic India, based on some sculptures in the Punjab."

Burton carefully placed two crosses on the map. "Any more?"

But Sarah had been distracted and she squinted at the graph. "I've not seen it laid out like this before. There's a pattern."

She looked to Burton for confirmation, to find he was staring back at her coolly, his expression still guarded as well as curious. She traced her fingers over the crosses and lines. "They're getting more frequent..."

Burton nodded. "I think we need to do something about that."

Sarah looked at him and she felt cold. She had finally realised the anomalies were not a game when she'd stumbled through the carnage of men she'd known and joked with, while Becker pulled her out of a charnel house somewhere in the distant future, but now the realisation hit her all over again. This was something far bigger.

"It'll be bad, will it?" she asked in a small voice.

"Oh yes! I think so!" Then Burton flashed her a smile. "But I'm on it. Don't worry. We can deal with this."

* * *

 

"You going to tell him about the Wolves of Wenlock Barrow?" asked Judith as they drank tea in the little cafe on the high street and watched the traffic struggling through the rain outside.

"Wenlock Barrow's a bit of a way from his lands." Sarah realised she was frowning at Judith. Judith was normally better with local history than that.

Judith laughed. "No it isn't. Sir Humphrey Morton had the stones lifted and moved sometime in the Victorian era because he didn't like the tales and legends. Or more probably he didn't like the country folk tramping all over his neat gardens at the winter solstice. He created a false barrow with the stones five miles from his house. Not that it did him much good. But Wenlock was originally on your Mr. Burton's lands."

* * *

Sarah went back to research the barrow. Judith had been right about Sir Humphrey, though he was remarkably vague in his own diaries about his reasons for carting the whole edifice lock, stock and barrel across five miles of country.

The legend of the wolves went back a long way. A twelfth century monk had first set it down, full of Benedictine disapproval, about how each solstice the wolves swarmed over the countryside drawn by the witch light. The locals left out offerings to the fair folk to appease the light. Brother Gregory obviously thought the wolves were drawn by the fresh meat left outside the barred doors and was thoroughly irritated by what he saw as pagan superstition.

After she'd read the monk's flowery account, Sarah had her first nightmare in months. Running endlessly through the wreckage of the future, searching for Philip who was lost somewhere in a maze of brick and iron with the sound of the predators scrabbling all around her, behind the walls and under the floors, endlessly seeking some way to reach her.

Her research demonstrated that the tale of the wolves got retold through the centuries in numerous forms. There was a bizarre Victorian version for children in which a virtuous maiden refused to leave out the `pagan offering' and so banished the wolves from the village, but was herself mauled to death in the process. There was an even more bizarre commentary upon this by a Freudian scholar who though the wolves were a metaphor for the loss of virginity.

* * *

Sarah's interest in the Wolves of Wenlock Barrow was interrupted late one July afternoon by the sound of Burton's arrival. It was a Wednesday, which was unthinkable and she had to lean out of the window to check it was really him. The figure that climbed out onto the tarmac of the incongruous helipad was slumped and dejected and it took her a moment to confirm that yes, it was Burton.

She met him in the hallway. He looked tired and unwashed. "Have you seen the news?" he asked.

She shook her head. She'd spent the day in the local record's office, transcribing notes by hand.

"Is it convergence?" she asked. She knew it was supposed to be soon but had relied on Burton's assurances that he would be ready, or as ready as anyone would be for the crisis to come, and she had been so engrossed in her research that she hadn't even turned the radio on for the last two days.

He watched her for a moment and it was one of the few times she felt there was no thought or calculation in his expression, just a sort of desperate tiredness.

"Phone the ARC. They'll tell you what happened. Then let me know if you still want to work for me."

He brushed past her, carrying his suitcase up to his room.

She phoned Becker, who told her of Burton's disastrous folly and the way Matt Anderson had rescued him at the last minute, risking his life for the man who had nearly brought them all to ruin, staggering out of the implosion of the final anomaly with a battered Philip Burton over one shoulder.

Sarah also switched on the radio news. Prospero was getting a lot of mentions and not in a good way. She had the distinct impression of political wheels spinning and right now Philip and Prospero were a convenient scapegoat.

She boiled an egg, made bread and butter soldiers and two cups of tea and took them up to his room. He didn't answer when she knocked on the door so she pushed it open tentatively to find him sitting on the bed, completely still for once in his life, staring into the middle distance.

"So, you know," he said.

"Depression doesn't suit you." She slammed the tray down on the desk rather more firmly than she'd intended. The egg rattled in the cup and tea slopped over the tops of the mugs.

"Boiled egg and soldiers?" he asked.

"Not all of us match your culinary expertise," she threw back.

He turned to stare out of the window. "You should leave."

"You meant well. I've seen you working to solve that problem."

He laughed. A harsh scraping sound in his throat. "I made the mistake of thinking I was the only person capable of solving the problem. I hid the truth, and manipulated people, just so I could do it all my way."

Sarah sipped at her tea thoughtfully. "Well, being an arrogant bastard is one of your more endearing qualities."

He laughed again but it sounded more natural this time and he reached out for his own cup of tea.

"I'm glad you're here," he said at length. "That's why I came. I thought, if you didn't leave then I'd have found my firm place to stand."

Sarah nodded over her tea but didn't say anything. All the reassurances she could offer sounded like platitudes and all the recriminations had already been said.

"Don't let your egg and soldiers go cold," she offered and left him to brood.

He spent the next day on the phone, setting damage limitation in process, but he stayed at the house a full week. Sarah wasn't sure what she was, a sounding board or a confessor, but they talked over the convergence crisis from every angle and viewpoint. When she heard how he had left Connor trapped in the car park, she actually threw her plate of food at him and refused to speak to him for a day, afraid of what he would say.

"I deserved that," was his only response when he sought her out the following evening.

"You are bloody well going to do better next time," she retorted.

"I very much doubt I will be allowed a next time."

"There are endless next times. You may not get a shot at saving the world again, but you can make an effort to be a decent human being more often."

He'd flinched slightly at that, but his mood was introspective and she knew her words had sunk down into that highly intelligent brain of his.

* * *

The historical texts were harder to make sense of than the legends had been. Burton's visits to the house became more regular, almost weekly, and he distracted her, breaking her focus when he took her tramping along the local walks or just demanding her attention for long talks on his new ideas for Prospero, or books he had been reading or whatever was currently on his mind. It took Sarah longer than she would have liked to find and piece together the evidence, but by Halloween she thought she had as much as she needed.

In 1351, a local noble had commented in his manorial record that the wolves had been bad that winter. In 1417, the monks reported that there was a pack of wolves in the area that the locals attributed to Wenlock Barrow. In 1483, the parish priest mentioned that wolves had been sighted and noted it as an unusual occurrence. In 1549, a letter full of gossip from a travelling merchant passing through the area mentioned the legend again with a quip that a local pack of wild dogs was sometimes referred to as the Wenlock wolves. In 1681, a rambling piece in the London Gazette discussing the signs and portents of the Great Comet mentioned the reappearance of wolves in Lincolnshire. In 1747, a rather hysterical request from the local Justice of the Peace accused Jacobites of trying to generate terror by letting wild dogs loose in the area and, of course, in 1879, Sir Humphrey took the sudden and unexplained step of moving the barrow. By this time Sarah had a rough plot on a graph and, give or take a few omissions, a 66 year cycle of appearances had emerged.

She was now certain that the next appearance would have been on the winter solstice in 1944 when this place had been full of soldiers. She considered asking whether Lester could obtain any details from the MoD.

But in the end it wasn't the MoD that came up trumps, but John Marlin who one day handed her neat type-written report that had come to him by way of his father who had, apparently, been handed it by the brigadier stationed at Waterford Hall during the war.

"If you're planning on being here this winter, you should read this," he said.

* * *

"You're telling me that the grounds of my house are going to be infested by a pack of ravening wolves in three days time?"

Burton seemed to be taking her news as some sort of personal affront and Sarah wondered if it might have been better just to keep it to herself and hope he decided to spend the winter solstice on the various projects he was involved in to enable Prospero to arise - phoenix-like - from its own ashes..

"I don't remember mentioning the word ravening," she pointed out.

"This makes them sound ravening!" Burton waved the report that John Marlin had found under her nose.

Sarah had to admit that the wolves had sounded somewhat hungry, but she still saw no need for unnecessary exaggeration.

"In which case I'll order in a takeaway for them in advance, rather than expecting you to cook," she retorted, slightly more acerbically than she had intended. Burton was actually a very good cook, but she didn't imagine that wolves would be overly fond of either curry or his other speciality that she was particularly fond of - spaghetti carbonara.

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "Yes. Both the historical records and your own calculations point to the fact that an anomaly is going to open in your grounds, probably on the site of the former Wenlock Barrow in three days' time. It is statistically likely that wolves will come through it. They seem to be reasonably well-documented." She waved a hand at the books piled up on the table in the main hall. "Apart from the relatively recent obsession with vampires and the like, werewolf stories are actually surprisingly few and far between in mainland Britain." She was dropping into lecture mode and she knew it, but there were times when it provided the best defence against her employer's own penetrating intellect, and Burton did actually appear to respect anyone who he believed had as good a grasp of their subject as he had of his own. "According to folklore, the last wolf was hunted to extinction in Scotland in 1743. After that, stories relating to wolves steadily declined, which is hardly surprising, once direct knowledge of the creatures themselves started to decline."

She drew in a deep breath and waved her hand at a sheaf of photocopied papers strewn across the table. "Decline everywhere apart from round here, that is. Local folklore in this area - much of which was collected by Elizabeth Leadbetter in 1926 - is absolutely stiff with references to wolves." The one that had given her the biggest shiver, but in her defence she had been alone in the house when she'd read the story, was the tale of the wolf's skull dug up by a local archaeologist digging near one of the many barrows in the area. The man had taken it home, but had then found his house under siege from a particularly large and ferocious wolf. The visitation happened every night for three nights during which he'd had to suffer the sight of the animal staring in at him through the kitchen window, where he'd barricaded himself in. On the fourth night he'd reburied this skull where he'd found it and had been troubled no more by nocturnal visitors.

There were more stories, but Sarah saw no need to run through every single one. She'd established the facts to her own satisfaction and she'd seen the doubt in Burton's eyes give way to interest and then change to excitement.

"We need sheep!" he announced. "Preferably dead ones, they'll be easier to handle that way."

And would lead to less trouble if Abby ever got wind of this when she returned from her honeymoon with Connor, Sarah thought. She knew immediately what Burton was thinking. Ravening or not, wolves would be less inclined to stray far from the site of the anomaly if they had a ready source of food nearby. It didn't take an animal expert to work that one out.

If the butcher in the village was surprised by her request for as many sheep carcasses as he could lay his hands on - money no object - he didn't show it. The man promised them a delivery by the morning of the solstice.

Burton threw himself into the subject of wolves with as much enthusiasm as he normally displayed for his own research. Together they combed the internet for relevant information - although after reading Farley Mowat's the subject in Never Cry Wolf, she also wondered if they should also lay in a large supply of mice as well, but they would just have to hope that wolves would avail themselves of something larger if it was spread out on a plate for them, so to speak. She also hoped that Burton wouldn't go as far as to delineate his own territory around the house by deciding to go out and pee on trees.

And speaking of pissing contests...

"We need some back up in case the sheep don't prove to be enough of a reason to stick around," she told him.

He glanced up absently from his laptop. "I'll have a security team from Prospero helicoptered in by tomorrow morning." He though for a moment and then added, "I suppose they'll needed feeding as well. Could you organise a delivery from Waitrose?"

His habit of treating her like his secretary was probably understandable given that he was paying her wages, but there were times when Sarah was sorely tempted to point out that she had actually been engaged to research the history of his house, and that wolves were simply a by-product of that.

She shook her head emphatically. "Your men have no experience of this sort of thing. We need a team from the ARC."

"If it hasn't escaped your notice, I'm not exactly in a very good position to ask James Lester for any favours."

"No, but I am."

Burton raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. She took that as assent and pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket. She still had Lester's private line in her contacts.

"James, it's Sarah.... Yes, I'm very well, thanks. James, I have a favour to ask..."

* * *

The clang of the cast iron door bell was loud in the silence that had settled on Waterford Hall like a heavy blanket.

Sarah looked up from her laptop screen. It was 2.30pm. The sheep had probably arrived.

She opened the imposing main door that looked out over the wide sweep of gravel driveway in front of the main house. There was no sign of any butcher's van, but the first thing she saw was a very familiar truck parked on top of a light coverlet of snow.

The second thing she noticed was an even more familiar figure lounging against one of the Doric pillars that had been added to the house in 1754. It was a baseless Roman Doric pillar and Sarah had spent a happy afternoon wrapped up in the debates of eighteenth century architecture as she established that Sir Anthony Curlew (then owner) had been in the vanguard of the neo-classical revival. Becker was wearing a battered brown leather jacket, a faded green shirt, a pair of jeans with a slight rip in one knee, and an expression that told Sarah that Lester's head of security wasn't entirely happy to be there.

"Hello, Sarah."

"Hello, Becker." She smiled at him and then threw formality to the four winds and gave him a hug.

His initial stiffness melted and he hugged her back. Becker had saved her life. She thought that entitled her to a little familiarity and fortunately the former SAS captain appeared to agree. She hadn't seen him since Connor and Abby's wedding and he appeared to have grown his hair slightly longer and forgotten to shave.

"I'm officially off-duty," Becker commented, clearly noticing the direction her eyes had taken. "I never shave when I'm off-duty."

"Captain Becker, splendid to see you!" Burton's voice was slightly too hearty and Sarah suspected he was aware of that.

Becker raised one eyebrow in a gesture that always reminded Sarah of Lester but didn't return Burton's smile, nor did he accept the proffered hand. "Just Becker will do, Mr Burton."

"Thank you for coming," Burton said, recovering his composure admirably fast in the face of Becker's barely-veiled hostility. "I see my insurers paid out for a new truck."

Sarah winced and wondered if she should suggest that if they wanted to indulge in a pissing contest there were plenty of trees in the grounds they could use. It might help to keep the wolves at bay, but she had a feeling she would probably shock both of them if she used a word like piss.

"Oh look," she said brightly. "The butcher has arrived exactly when he said he would!"

The white van labelled Mogfords, Family Butchers since 1857, drew up next to Becker's truck and a large man wearing a spotless blue and white apron over a pair of dark blue overalls jumped out. "Forty entire sheep, ma'am, just like you ordered. Skinned and gutted. I've bagged the offal separately."

"Expecting company?" Becker asked, a speculative gleam in his hazel eyes.

* * *

The snow continued to fall for the rest of the afternoon. The narrow country lanes were now impassable by anything less than a 4x4, not that there was any shortage of them in the heart of Lincolnshire.

Burton was pleased by the ever-growing blanket of white because he hoped it would keep any casual passerby at bay and Becker was glad of it because it would make the job of tracking any creatures that came through the anomaly if - when - it appeared, considerably easier. Sarah wondered if she was the only one captivated by its beauty for its own sake, but surrounded by dark and brooding men, she thought she very probably was.

Sarah's view, based on the historical information she'd gathered led her to the conclusion that the anomaly would appear somewhere in the vicinity of the original site of Wenlock Barrow, so using the sledge that she had bought the previous day for transport, they dragged the sheep carcasses across the snowy fields and to the small copse of trees that marked the spot. The thought of the destruction of the barrow sat heavily on Sarah, but she could understand why Sir Humphrey Morton had felt the need to relocate the barrow at a time when antiquarianism was a rapidly growing pastime amongst the landed gentry and in many cases, under-employed clergymen of independent means. A proposed visit by Reverend John Skinner, diarist and obsessive sketcher, mere months after the 1878 solstice, had probably been the final straw and after that, Sir Humphrey had taken decisive action.

Acting on Becker's suggestion, they laid a ring of dead sheep around the copse and positioned other carcasses at strategic points nearby, as well as keeping a few on the sledge in reserve for emergencies. Before her time at the ARC, Sarah probably would have been somewhat squeamish about handling the dead animals - she normally preferred her bones older and less well covered - but that sort of sensibility had been lost to her a long time ago.

Becker carried one of the larger EMD rifles slung over his back and had two pistols, one holstered on each thigh. According to the story Matt Anderson had told her at Connor and Abby's wedding, Becker had given up his objections to the weapons when it had been proven that they really could bring down a T. rex. He'd also insisted on arming her with one of the pistols, but hadn't offered one to Burton. Sarah had expected Burton to argue the point but to her surprise he said nothing.

Once they'd finished spreading dead sheep around the countryside, they retired to the nearby folly to watch and wait. Sarah had come prepared with fleece blankets, smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches and several flasks of hot drinks. If they were going to spend the night out here she had no intention of being cold or going hungry.

"So what time is it due?" Becker asked, lounging decorously by one of the windows.

"10.38pm precisely," Burton responded, not taking his eyes of the nearby copse of trees.

Becker did the trick with his slightly scarred eyebrow again.

Burton sighed. "Joke, Becker. It was just a joke. I have no idea, but Sarah's research indicates that it will be sometime tonight and my calculations confirm that."

At 10.40pm a sudden flare of light in the trees drew all their attention and Sarah wasn't sure who looked more surprised: Burton or Becker. She felt the familiar prickle of fear that the anomalies always evoked in her. It was worse than she recalled but then this was her first anomaly since, well, since the last one. The one that had very nearly resulted in her death. She balled her hands into fists inside her jacket pockets, fighting against the urge simply to run and hide.

The anomaly was as beautiful as she remembered. The moonlight filtered down through a slight snow-mist and was reflected by myriad shattered fragments of time onto the crisp white coverlet overlying the short winter grass.

At 10.56pm the first curious muzzle poked out of the diamond shards, closely followed by a strongly jawed head and body covered in a thick, dark pelt. It was immediately recognisable as wolf and yet there were differences that Sarah noticed almost immediately. The legs were shorter and sturdier than modern wolves and the creature was more massive, measuring easily 1.5 metres from its black nose to the tip of its equally dark tail. Another slightly smaller animal appeared behind the first, and together they scented the air before deciding to explore their new surroundings.

At Sarah's side, Becker had the EMD rifle cradled in his arms, but to his credit he hadn't yet raised it to his shoulder. She risked a quick glance at Philip Burton and had the satisfaction of seeing his jaw quite literally drop with amazement. He might have been accustomed to anomalies created in laboratory conditions but, she realised, this was quite probably his first sight of a naturally-occurring one.

Two more wolves had followed the leaders and were now sniffing at the meat.

"Dire wolves," Sarah said quietly. "They aren't ordinary wolves at all. They're dire wolves."

Palaeontology had never been her strongest suit, but her work for the ARC had extended her knowledge of the creatures they had encountered, sometimes on an almost daily basis.

"Nice name," Becker muttered, not taking his eyes off the animals. "Let's hope they don't live down to it."

"They're one of the classic Pleistocene megafauna," Sarah told him, thinking how much Connor and Abby would have enjoyed watching these creatures from a safe distance. She didn't imagine for a second that either of the men with her now would feel the same way, but it was suddenly very important to her that they shouldn't just see these magnificent creatures as a threat. The thought crossed her mind that Abby would be pleased to know that her influence was still being felt, even if she had probably spent the day watching giant tortoises on the Galapagos Islands.

It was a measure of the time Becker had spent alongside Connor that he didn't ask when the Pleistocene was.

More wolves streamed through the anomaly and Sarah could see the snow frosting their coats. The time they came from was probably even harsher than the current climate, so this would seem relatively warm to the wolves.

One of the larger wolves, the alpha male presumably, had discovered one of the sheep carcasses and was sniffing at it. After a moment's initial suspicion, the animal seized one of the hind legs in its powerful jaws and ripped off a large chunk of meat.

"They're starving," Sarah breathed. Despite their thick coats, the wolves were thin, nowhere near as bulky as they had first seemed.

Once the alpha wolf started tearing at one of the carcasses, the others quickly followed suit. Soon the area was thick with wolves, all devouring what was quite probably the first fresh meat they'd had in a while. One dire wolf seized a dead sheep by one leg and started dragging it back through the anomaly. Sarah guessed she was watching a female wolf that had cubs to feed.

"Looks like someone's Christmas has come early," Becker commented. "They look hungry."

"But with fresh meat to hand they won't need to go hunting," Sarah countered quickly.

Becker flashed her one of his rare smiles. "I know. Even Abby says I'm nowhere near as trigger happy as I used to be."

 

"You do a commendable job, Cap... Becker," Burton said, quickly correcting himself. "The animals pose a significant threat to the public and need to be handled appropriately." In response to two sets of hard stares, Burton hastily amended, "But perhaps I was a little... over-zealous on one occasion."

"Never a good idea to get between a man and his mammoth," Becker said.

"So I discovered," Burton said ruefully. "James Lester is an even more formidable opponent than his pet."

"He cares about his own." Somewhat to her surprise, there was no accusation in Becker's voice, but even so Sarah saw Burton flinch. "What's that?" In a heartbeat, Becker's attention was fixed elsewhere, on the tree line at the far end of the avenue where it reached up to the rambling facade of the house.

Sarah squinted, but even in the clear moonlight with the snow reflecting the light from the anomaly, she couldn't make much out.

"People," said Burton grimly.

"Who on earth would be coming up here now?" asked Sarah.

"Some of the locals obviously have an idea about the wolves. Your friend John Marlin, for instance," said Burton.

"And that consignment of sheep probably raised a few eyebrows," murmured Becker.

"We need to nip this in the bud." Burton stood up. "I am not having a bunch of trigger-happy farmers wandering around in my grounds without a by your leave."

Without waiting to see whether he was being followed or not, Burton strode out of the folly, making sure he kept well away from the dire wolves. The animals had now realised that there was plenty of food for the whole pack and even the smaller, younger wolves had been allowed to feed.

They walked down the rise away from the folly, leaving deep tracks in the soft snow. Becker had his bulky EMD rifle held casually in the crook of his arm, but Sarah was aware of his alertness, now divided between the three figures ahead of them, torch light bobbing along the driveway, and the wolf pack feasting on the sheep carcasses, clearly illuminated by the light of the anomaly.

Sarah recognised the three men as they drew close. Frank Chalmers was a local farmer, his wife was a great jam and preserve maker and a stalwart of the regular round of fetes and jumble sales held in the village hall. Sarah had never really spoken to him more than to exchange a quick greeting and nod as she'd handed him fairy cakes or cups of tea. Her impression of him was that he was steady, quiet but dependable. Next to him was Ned Crispin. Ned worked in Lincoln during the week, but his father ran the `The King's Head' pub in the village. Sarah had been served by him when she had taken a break from her research and gone in for a drink and a bar snack a few times but again she hardly knew him. At the head of the small trio though was John Marlin, the mild-mannered historian looking far more at ease with a shotgun that she'd expected, but then his gentle exterior made it easy to forget he had been a soldier. He was carrying the gun broken over the crook of his arm, but she could see that each barrel contained a cartridge and the weapon would be ready to fire in an instant.

"John?" she asked, keeping her voice steady.

He nodded in the direction of the light. "The report was correct then?"

"It's all under control," Burton broke in and Sarah winced at the arrogance in his tone. "There's no need for you to be here."

"Are those wolves?" asked Ned. There was a click as he re-engaged the barrel of his shotgun. To his credit he didn't actually point it at the wolves, but Sarah could feel his anxiety.

"Yes," said Burton firmly. "But I have the situation under control."

"Right," said Frank in a businesslike tone, walking round them calmly. "We'll be seeing about that."

"They're not doing any harm," Sarah said quickly. "They're only interested in the food we've left for them."

"Not yet, mebbe, but them's killers, miss, and you know it," replied Frank grimly.

"If they're like dogs the trick will be to take down the pack leader," said John, also readying his gun.

"No," said Burton.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Sarah would have been amused by the way the locals simply ignored Burton. He wasn't a man who was used to being ignored.

Frank brought the gun up to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel to where the wolves were still worrying at the remains of the sheep.

"I said no!" Suddenly Burton was standing directly in front of the shot gun, staring down the barrel back at Frank Chalmers.

"Put down the gun." Becker now had his EMD trained on the men.

"Those things are dangerous! Didn't you read that report I gave you?" John Marlin demanded. "Two men died that night. The army covered it up, but it was obvious what happened. We can't take the risk of them getting loose in the village."

"They won't stray far from the food," Burton stated confidently. "There's absolutely no reason for them to do so. They're quite happy to take dead meat." He waved an imperious hand. "Look at them, man! They're starving. You can practically see their ribs. Why on earth would they leave more food than they've probably seen in a month to go wandering around the countryside? Use your brains! They are not a threat."

Sarah could see that Burton's words were having some effect on the historian, but the other two men were still wary, and one twitch of a finger on a trigger could have disastrous consequences with Burton standing between them and the wolves.

She drew in a deep breath and stepped up to his side, knowing that she was almost certainly going to incur Becker's wrath, but she was certain that none of the men would deliberately injure her. "He's right," she said quietly. "The animals aren't a threat. We've got another ten carcasses in reserve if we need them and enough bags of offal to sink a ship."

"Not very subtle ordering them from Mogfords," John commented, a small smile twitching his lips, even though he still had his eyes trained on the dire wolf pack.

"I didn't think Tescos would be able to produce quite that many," Sarah said.

The tension had dropped a notch for which she was grateful. She could see that none of the men had their fingers on the trigger and, at her side, Becker still appeared deceptively relaxed but she knew that could change in the space of a heartbeat.

Very slowly and very deliberately, she turned her back on the three men, ignoring the prickle of unease that ran up her spine. The dire wolves had reduced several of the carcasses to scraps and were squabbling almost amiably over the remains. Several of the dead sheep had been dragged through the anomaly by the females and the alpha male, the huge black wolf that had appeared first, was standing guard, sniffing the air and staring at them across the expanse of snow. Sarah still didn't know what it was about the anomalies that attracted creatures of all kinds to them, but she hoped the fact that other members of the pack, including cubs, were still on the other side would be an incentive for the animals to take their food and go.

From behind her, she heard the snap of a shotgun being broken again, followed a few moments later by the other two. She breathed a sigh of relief.

For the next hour, they all stood and watched the dire wolves eat their fill. The alpha female and three others busied themselves dragging the uneaten carcasses back to their own time. To her surprise, none of the three men from the village actually questioned what was happening. Convergence had brought knowledge of the anomalies to the public and concealing their existence was no longer possible, but at least it saved them from the need to produce an improbable cover story.

Just after midnight, the animals started to drift away, back to their own time. They'd gorged themselves on meat and appeared content. As Burton had so confidently stated, with a ready supply of food on hand they had no need to hunt.

She turned to John Marlin and said, "Maybe you can find a way of passing knowledge of this to those who will need to know it in the future."

A smile spread across his face. "One of the teachers at my grandson's school has been on about burying a time capsule next to the war memorial. Maybe we could have one to be opened in another 66 years."

She returned his smile. "You worked it out as well?"

"It wasn't that difficult, lass. The sheep were just the icing on the cake." The man held his hand out to Philip Burton. "No hard feelings?"

Burton shook the man's hand. "Indeed. You came to do what you thought was right."

"Aye, but I'm glad it didn't come to owt." John nodded at his two companions. "I think we can leave these good folks to it now, lads."

The other two men nodded and more hands were shaken with an almost embarrassed air of formality. Then, without a backwards glance, the three men turned and started to make their way back to the village.

"I'm going to make a wide sweep around the trees," Becker said quietly. "I want to be sure that none of them have wandered off. The anomaly appears to be weakening. It's nowhere near as bright."

As he moved off, Sarah glanced sideways at Burton.

He was watching the last of the wolves disappearing though the anomaly.

The pale light of the now-fading rip in time threw his face into a study of contrasts.

He'd lost weight in the past few months making his features even more defined and angular and she noticed grey hairs in his close-cropped beard that hadn't been there when she'd first known him."Congratulations," she said.She'd obviously broken into his reverie and he glanced sharply at her."Congratulations?""On acting like a decent human being.

I told you you'd get an opportunity.""To be honest, I wasn't even thinking of that," he said, looking almost embarrassed, which wasn't a look she thought she'd ever associate with Philip Burton.

"I'm not sure what I was thinking.

Stepping in front of a loaded shot gun is one of the stupidest actions I've ever taken."Instinctively, Sarah reached out and took hold of his gloved hand and gave it a squeeze.

"It all turned out for the best."Burton gently squeezed her hand in return and turned to watch the anomaly again, not letting go of her fingers.

"At least on this occasion I didn't manage to nearly destroy the world."Sarah leant her head against his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

"You did a good thing here today."His hand tightened on hers and she felt him turn to look at her again. She lifted her head from his shoulder.

The anomaly made the depths of his eyes sparkle.

Behind him the moon shone over the winter landscape, set amidst the full panoply of stars.

He looked up at the dark sky beyond her and then back down."I'm here again, the stars befriending, they come and go of their own free will," he said.She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"It's a line from a song.

One of my technicians had it on repeat play in her lab once for an entire day. It made me think of you. But I sincerely hope that you'll stay of your own free will, and not decide to go."It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean in and kiss him gently on the lips.

It was the merest brush at first but he slipped his free arm around her waist and pulled her close and then she opened her mouth and the kiss deepened into something more passionate and heartfelt.

Neither of them noticed when the anomaly finally faded and winked out of existence.


End file.
